·THE \NATCHERS

and other poems

by

ACRIAN. GREEN

THE \NATCHERSand other poems

ON THE ESTUARY HILLSAILING BARGES OFF SOUTHENDTERMINALSI FELL IN LOVE AGAINTHE WATCHERSTHE NIGHT I WANTED YOUA RICE GRAINMODELMIRRORSENSUALSOMETHING 'ID REMEMBER YOU BYFROM THE PIER AT SUNSETSEAGULLS INLAND'lOO SHORT THE DAYSOLD ~~ WALKING THROUGH F1ELDSTWO DRUNKEN NIGHTSENIGMATHE DYING PLACESGETI'ING AWAY FROM IT ALLFACADERED LION, ALIX3ATE EASTlVlANSLEEPINGLADY ....'ID THE LADY IN BLACKFDGTRAPPER

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copyright, 1987, Adrian Green

Acknowledgement is made to the following publications inwhich some of these poems originally appeared:- "I dolike to be beside the seaside" (Idad press), B099, Essexcountryside, "In Praise of Essex" (Egon publishers Ltd),Global Tapestry, Iron, Magma, New Poetry, pam's Poems,Poet's England, Sepia, Sol, Southend poetry, Thursdays,True Thomas & Wordshop. "Too Short The Days" has beenbroadcast on Essex Radio.

- 1 -

ON THE ESTUARY HILL

The curlew and the heron call,the hissing mud and whispering Wingssound eery through the idle airuntil the moonlit midnight silence falls,and then the tide flows softlythrough the gut and sluice of estuary sandsand dark against the dreamlit skythe trees arise from hedgerows,and the hillsalive with monstrous shapesare menacing with soundless fear,and still below the blundering manthe beery and uncertain headthe stubbled fields hold secrets nowand silence fills the river bed.

SAILING BARGES OFF SOUTHEND

Drifting on a tide from long agoThey swing at anchor silentlyWreathed in early morning mistLike ghosts grown mellow with antiquity.

With names like Gladys, Will and Edith MayHeroic legends motionless on ancient bowsThey are waiting for the breeze, patientlySubmissive to the whim of air and ebb.

Later with windlass rattling as anchors are raisedSails set at the stirring of wind over tideThey bear away a pageant of remembered trade,A flock of stately seabirds through the lanes.

- 2-

- 3 -

TERMINALSl.

A series of departures and arrivals rememberednot the in-between sitting downand staring out of the window silences,the real attrition, grinding down of lovebetween ter minals, spacefilled with paperback thrillers

and auto magazines

the first touching- uncertainty -

smell of an unfamiliar body

then, too soon, like wakingin the damp aftermath of dream,a sense of something not recoverable.

2.Outside the window:a landscape webbed with cables.

wake between deathsin anticipationof another beginning.

Only at the terminalsor point of damageare the nerves exposed,made visible -a blue spark burning,molecular re-arrangementthe senses remember.

At each birtha new rhythm, at death -silence.

Between concussionsthere is nothing to remember.

I FELL IN LOVE AGAIN

I fell in love againfrom the other side of the countrywhere we danced so longa dance in lights so low

I fell in love againto the music we playedyour head thrown carelessly highwild rhythms in your hair

I fell in love againacross the winters passingsince we chanced a loveto dance a lie so long ago.

THE WATCHERS

There's no ignoringthe roomlights suddenly offor curtains tweaked asidein the camouflage of darknessor the broken conversationsor coitus interruptedat the sound of the carstopping.

There's no ignoringyour ring's glintin the streetlight.

The facesat the window seeevery timethat I am blackand your arescar let.

- 4 -

THE NIGHT I WANTED YOU

I wanted to followyou walk awayfrom the placewhere we metand had latelybeen introduced

I wanted to hideaway with youchase shadowsfrom your facebeyond the whispersand the lies

I wanted to tastethe night in your armsthe streetlamp's lightbeyond the roomilluminating emptinesswe'd leave outside

I wanted to liveforeverthe night I wanted you.

A RICE GRAIN

Something newfrom the hothouse todayto be rolled, cut, and crushedfor those who have the palateand educated tastebuds.

Others are small boyswondering what happenedto the emperor's clothes,metaphorically speaking.

- 5 -

MODEL

You didn't think of posing for a poemor the hours pencilled into memory,the unconscious camerashuttering your image through my eye.

MIRROR

You were not draped as a statueor seated like stonefor hours in a leg-stiffening trance.

No studio set or pedestal stagedsave the moments caughtand movement remembered -a dance of unintentional desire,

and yet, no less than paint or photographyour image forms itself across the page.

There are no liesin the morningno ch ea ting of age

an illusion of eyesmoothing skin over bone.

No portrait hidden awaybecoming skeletaland demanding release.

Another day to face,my confessor, so laughat this charting of years.

- 6 -

SENSUAL

to touch and be touchedfeel the pendulum swingthis way and that

brush lightly with fingersa soft texture of velvetsmooth ripples of warmth

to touch and be touchedlips parting on lipstongue taste of sweetness

leaning softly togetherskin pressed against fleshthe real sense of touching

to touch is being touchedtouching touched.

SOMETHING TO REMEMBER YOU BY

The room sweetwith your perfumeenthusiastically used,

the glow of smouldering coalnear spent,

the tumble of clotheson a chairand wine half drunk,

your eyes half-closedto the music we played:

how could I knowthe snare of your smile?

- 7 -

FROM THE PIER AT SUNSET

Nameless we areover the tideour sunfalling westwardthe estuary afire.

Our fingers toucha new lovenot caring for the ebbtomorrowor the draining of desire.

SEA GULLS INLAND

Love is a stranger here, too,skirting the fragile pondthese seagulls strut, warnings ignored.

Winter has driven us all inlandto be torn apart again,the frozen park a battleground

where spirits of the ancient castleare besieged by new invaders,a conflict of centuries.

We watch the stream,ice-fingered in the aftermath of floodand straining its banks,

an escape by at tr rt ron, trees leftvulnerable now in the crumbling earth,a tangle of roots exposed.

When the season retreatsthe birds will return, as we willto opposite ends of the country.The winter scars a healing memory.

- 8 -

TOO SHORT THE DA.YS

Too short the dayswe sighted perfectionor thought between usit might be achievable.

We have been apart too longto recognise the changes,to match now with the unaltered then.

- 9 -

We meet again as strangersnot certainin the formality of silencewhat memoriesare left to be shared.

OLD MAN WALKING THROUGH FIELDS

Past blackberry, hawthorn,His stick probes at the ground.He has passed through many fieldsReflecting on love and natureAnd the nature of love.

The luggage he carries in his head -A rough bundle of what might have been,What is, and what never will be.His face is mountain-scarred with shadowAs daylight tumbles away to the west.

And memories add up to what he is,An old man walking through fields -Acres of wheat and barleyWhere children talked about love.He has passed through many fields.

TWO DRUNKEN NIGHTS

1.

The loneliness hourcolours the fuzzed edgesof consciousness with darkempty desires to be somewhereelse have someone to be withtalk to a different glasssee a different face lyingbeside this one and otherhands to make coffeewhen morning calls.The loneliness hourdissolves into imagesbehind the eyelids ofthe same room.

2.

It is the endof a working arrangement,the time to call the bossby his christian name. It is thechance to kiss the secretaryin public, and private lieswill be denied. The hoursare breathed out in cigarsmoke and laughteruntil the final bell whenjokes are drained andsmiles spilled in the air.A new beginning staggersinto a sense ofemptiness.

- 10 -

ENIGMA

An eggwaiting

to be brokenwaitingto tell meabout something

or other

THE DYING PLACES

Breached in old rages this stranger,This old man wandering through the rusty jungle.He hauls his feet - great weights - soSlowly, ah! so leadenlyAlong the dust filled wheel tracks.

His eyes, trained through another landscapeIn certain grey memories,Half close and do not want to seeThe colour, subtl e shades of yellow and brown,The hulks, starkly silhouetted in decay,

Or sun, the relentless beating downDry haze, the sifting primordial dust.He reaches out a clawTo touch the twisted computer frames,Silent lathes and pitted filing cabinets,

These tin bones, these skeletal monumentsDisintegrating as surely as Earth,In the aridness of unknown spaces, whereThere is no one to feel, to rememberThis place in another continuum.

- 11 -

GETTING AWAY FROM IT ALL

As an exercise in solitude -those lonely walksand early-morning rides -there is no measureof wha t consti tutes success.

The evenings spent alonewithin suburban wallsconfine a hope remembered,

and yet attempts at definitionare more frequent with age:

a star's movement explained,but still the skyis out of reach

and mountains recedein familiar landscapesyou have abandoned to the past.

FACADE

This place againof repeated farewells

a newspaper scuttering through the alley,shards of late bottles by the door.

I have accepted your different facesand fashioned nostalgia from your clothes.

A girl's mind hard as concreteher body slender, palewith the fingerprints of too many users,

you are many things to many people.

- 12 -

RED LION, ALDGA TE EAST

Dick Turpin sat here, they say,Was arrested, shot his mate and got away.

Easy, in rhyme, to imagine the legendMade glamorous by time

But here there is no smooth fiction,No gloss or adventure.

A dancer strips to scratchy musicOn an improvised stage

And the only relic of historyIs last year's Christmas decorations

(Or perhaps the year's before)Torn, but hanging still in May.

The bar is seedy with strong-ale drinkersMeasuring their lives between hostels,

The decay on their facesProbably much like Turpin hid amongst.

MAN SLEEPING

In the sunlight a raggedy heap,smell of stale piss in the afternoon,his body still, as if not breathing.

I pass both ways, at a distance,afraid of disturbingsomething that remains human.

- 13 -

LADY ....

LADY ~ YOU IGNORE MY POEMSand do not trust the wordsI use to make promises.

Your are probably right, alsoto disregard the kissesand the way our bodies dance togetheras if hungry for love,

for when the music stopswe are trapped by silence,caught between worldsand awkward in each other's space.

You talk of indifferenceand I sense the conflict of flesh.

LADY, YOUR VERSIONS OF TRUTH DIFFERin the details of perceptionand their recalling:

Your face a dance of liesyou would have me believethe dreams you stagea fantasy for unravellinga rhythm played for illusion.

You r versions of truthare the imperfections of which mirroryou made up to this morning.

- 14 -

LADY, THERE IS A. WALL BETWEEN USof old windows and mirror glass,a tangle of light in our eyes.

We landscape each other from fragments,the pieces of now and then we recognisego together in memory,make up the lives we imagine.

- 15 -

We are each side of a dreamwe built for ourselves,made fools by a structurewe thought we made sense of.

There is a wall between usof shattered illusionsand decisions we'd rather not make.

TO THE LADY IN BLACK(who bought Dante's Inferno from Oxfam)

Sorne tortured lovedark veiled across your face,small hands betray the certaintiesyour eyes have lost.

Is its uch m ournin g of the souldisplayed in darkness over livid cheeks,or pale awareness of the spiritsrestless yet in other worlds?

Though now you seem a gentle witchwhen, having pluckedthe ,Dante from the shelves,apologising for your lack of changeyou meet the bleakness of the cashier's stare.

FOG

Listeningfor the lighthousedrifting closer

its horna cry of ghostly cattlelost at sea.

We know what it isto be blind and afraidof what monsters may lurkbeyond our ears' reach

or what it IS to be smalland afraid of the dark.

In the morningwatching for shadowsand hearing the mournful callof the island

I think of you wakingat home and unawareof the shipabout to cross our bows.

TRAPPERHis shotgun loadedand knife honedas an argument for death,he has laid his traps and snaresbut has no time for polemic,only for splitting hares.

- 16 -

ISBN 0 907376 11 8

ADRIAIIGREEBwas born in Essex (1946) under the

sign of Gemini. He has published in a number of

magazines and local anthologies. and has one

previous collection "BEACHGAKB" from SOL

PUBLICATIONS. Having been a _mber of the

editorial collective which produced BABG. an

arts/poetry magazine in Southend. he now edits

SOL magazine with Malcolm Wright, and haa read

his poetry on local radio and at readings in

various parts of the country. Married with three

children. the cover design was produced in

collaboration with his daughter Vanessa.

UK: 8Sp

SElb POSl.JleATIElNS US: $1.75